


In The Spaces In Between

by zenosyne



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cunnilingus, Exhibitionism, F/F, Femslash, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4896097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenosyne/pseuds/zenosyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Nat and Pepper are maybe a little bit over-enthusiastic. Like. With each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Spaces In Between

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first fanfiction!!! \o/  
> Written for the same reason I do pretty much anything. Because I was told not to.  
> Please do tell me what you think! This is my first time writing this sort of thing so any input would be greatly appreciated.  
> And enjoy!

Most of the intimacy they share is in brief, stolen moments here and there, when they can, wherever they can, tiny little windows of time dislodged from the rest of the world and super-heated, radiating white-hot. Desire and greed and lust, fragmented and arranged very carefully between the larger blocks of time in which they are both adults and have their separate but parallel lives to lead. It’s just that. Not quite aligned with anything romantic. These aren’t impulses of the heart, not yet, but urges of the most primal nature, and the mutual satisfaction of carrying out those urges in the haphazard little snatches of time that they can manage, in the spaces in between.

They are both very busy women with very busy lives, and it takes quite a bit of luck at first, and then practice, and then skill, and then recklessness, to find the time to be together. All through the rest of the day they are restrained, animals on leashes just out of reach, and sometimes it’s painful, and sometimes it’s wonderfully provoking. The heat builds and builds inside them, threatening to burst, to burn them from the inside out, to consume them, leaking out in the nervous drumming of fingertips on tabletops or furtive glances at clocks. But then when they collide, when they get to reach out and take what they have been wanting, when they _fuck_ , and all the heat explodes out of them through their mouths and their fingers and their very cores, oh, it was all worth it. Every moment spent alone fidgeting in elevators or sitting on couches or quietly searching for release in public restroom stalls. It’s feral, and brutal. It’s not making love. It’s not even sex. It’s raw, hungry fucking, rough and violent. It’s a sexual supernova. When they fuck, it’s like strategic warfare. These moments are what they live for. The together moments. The spaces in between.

They haven’t told anyone, not yet, maybe never will, not if it just stays like this, just urges, just heat, just stolen moments. But that’s fine. They both have lives, and that’s complicated, and there just isn’t time for any more complicated. There’s never enough time. But that’s okay. Because they both like it this way, somehow. Tense, high-strung, brazen, stolen. The spontaneity. The rush of adrenaline. The possibility of being caught. The frantic push and pull to try to get each other across that line before the bell tolls. Like cheating time. Like cheating love. And they find their moments.

At the Avengers’ parties, tucked away in shaded corners and against the walls in the corridor around the corner, Natasha up against the wall with her legs around the other’s waist, Pepper with her lips locked around her nipple and her fingers buried inside of her.

On the jet, when they manage to get it to themselves, and also sometimes when they don’t, Natasha straddling Pepper’s lap in those plush leather chairs, working magic with all her little toys, Clint asleep on the other side of the cabin.

In Pepper’s limousine, on the way to important places, with its soundproofed passenger compartment and its tinted windows and a driver with very strict orders not to disturb, Natasha splayed out across the seat while Pepper does obscene things to her.

In Natasha’s soundproofed room in the tower, loudly, with silk and leather and silicone, nothing extravagant but enough to seem like a treat, and somehow Natasha always manages to make Pepper’s time there discreet.

In Pepper’s office, during hours, while Pepper is trying to work, Natasha crouched beneath her desk, between her thighs, hitching her skirt up, drinking her in, and she doesn’t bother to let up when Pepper’s assistants come in to give their reports.

Their spaces in between. Their stolen moments. Their intimate fragments of time, carefully excavated from the chaotic roil and cherished greatly. Brief and fleeting but so goddamn addicting.

And those are great.

A lustful little rendezvous when they can.

A quick encounter in a bathroom stall.

But then there are the other times.

Times when they can fuck in earnest, for hours, and burn and burn and burn until there’s nothing left to feel.

Times like now.

Times like 12:37 a.m. on a Thursday when Pepper is alone in her office after hours and the building is all but abandoned and she has literal heaps of paperwork to do before eight but the door flies open and there’s Natasha, all of Natasha, completely naked, standing in her doorway, super-heated, a trail of discarded clothes on the floor marking her path, and she’s saying “Fuck me, _now_ ”, and then the paperwork is on the floor and in its place on the desk is Natasha, resplendent, head reclined, keening, and Pepper is kneeling in front of her, her tongue searching and taking, her chin dripping with fluids, her shoulders supporting Natasha’s thighs clenched so tight she can’t think straight but she won’t let that stop her because Natasha’s hand is buried in her hair and she’s fucking her face with such need and she’s calling out, gasping, moaning, loudly, “Oh, fuck, Pepper, oh, my god, yes, god, fuck, Pepper, Pepper, Pepper” and she’s trembling all over and she nearly falls backwards but Pepper’s got her by the waist and when she comes, for the second time, violently, loudly, Pepper’s world goes black for a long moment, and she can feel her consciousness teetering dangerously on the edge, but she doesn’t stop, just keeps fucking Natasha with her tongue, through her orgasm, and then another, drinking her in, lost in the body she’s buried in, and Natasha is shuddering violently and her blood is boiling and her bones give way and finally she pushes Pepper away, releasing her thighs, falling onto her back on the desk, whimpering “too much, too much,” and Pepper’s cheeks are cold and she’s licking her lips as her body recovers and she’s pulled back from the edge.

Pepper climbs up off the floor and into her chair, slouching there, panting, wondering how she can be feeling this post-orgasm high when she wasn’t even the one who came. She doesn’t even bother wiping her face, coated in Natasha’s release. Vaguely, she recognizes that her office is saturated with the smell of sex, _again_ , and it’ll take probably an entire can of air freshener to make it vaguely presentable again. Also, her desk is a wreck. And there’s paper all over the floor. And probably another stain on her desk. And everything was worth it.

Natasha stays on her back, there on the desk, floating, drunk on sexual energy, very gradually drifting down from the incredible peak that Pepper always manages to push her to. She can feel her nerves buzzing and her hands are still shaking and she feels invincible, like the center of the universe, like she can conquer anything. She turns her head a little to stare at Pepper, and finds her staring right back, and she gives her a crooked a little grin, and she’s thinking maybe there’s something more than urges at work here.

“Ms. Potts,” she says, because she loves using that name, and Pepper hates it, “I do believe you are getting better at this.” And her voice is thin and airy and ravished.

“Well, _Ms. Romanoff_ ,” Pepper replies, speaking the name with the cheesiest bastardization of a Russian accent she can muster, “I do believe I have had the best teacher.” And her voice is lower, more needy, more hungry, still dripping with heat.

And then they’re both laughing with shaky breaths, at how absolutely absurd this is, what they have, and what they don’t, and Natasha turns back to stare at the ceiling and tries not to think about what could be, just what is, what’s here and now, as the color seeps back into her vision.

There are a few minutes of silence, in which Natasha’s breath calms, and Pepper’s doesn’t, and her muscles loosen, and Pepper’s don’t, and Natasha is thinking that that’s the best thing about these prolonged spaces, their long nights together.

The time.

To recover.

To go another round.

Natasha has finally regained full muscle control and is about to push herself off of the desk when Pepper says, “I do hope you’re going to recover soon.” 

“Why’s that?” Natasha replies, frowning. “I was kind of hoping we could have a long night in. Do a little catching up. D’you need to get back to work?” And she pushes herself back up to a sitting position on the edge of the desk.

“No,” Pepper says, and Natasha’s breath catches, because it’s a growl, fierce and throaty, and because there’s Pepper, Pepper the CEO, Pepper the very important businesswoman, Pepper the greatest conquest she has ever won, Pepper in her Fancy Business Chair, Pepper in her very expensive very formal suit with her hand under the waistband of her pencil skirt, her fingers moving slowly, purposefully, in circles, and her lips are parted and her gaze is distant and the blood is high in her cheeks and she says, “Because I’m going to need you to return the favor.”

Natasha pushes off the desk Pepper feels a jolt up her spine because every time she sees Natasha she’s remind of how _fucking hot_ she is. And there she is, naked, flushed, her hair an absolute mess and her eyes clouded, and the only way Pepper can think to describe her in this exact moment is truly, thoroughly fucked. And then Natasha pulls her to her feet to meet her, extricating her arm from her skirt. “I think I can do that,” she purrs, and takes Pepper’s fingers in her mouth, tasting her, relishing it, moaning into it, and Pepper bites her lip and moans too.

“I’m not going to get any work done tonight, am I?” Pepper asks, grinning, gesturing to the papers strewn about the floor.

Natasha pulls Pepper’s fingers out of her mouth with a soft _pop_ , and returns the grin, and gives her that _look_. And Pepper knows that look. Hates that look. _Loves_ that look. And Natasha says “Oh, you’ll be getting plenty of work done tonight, Ms. Potts.”

And then their lips are crashing together, violently, like opposing storms, and they can taste themselves on each other, and they’re both moaning, loudly, and their hands are wandering, and Natasha is frantically undoing the buttons on Pepper’s suit jacket, and they’re both taking what they want, what they’ve always wanted, even if they have a different way of going about it.

And maybe this is more than fucking, maybe more than stolen moments. Maybe this is a little bit of something else. Maybe this is lust, yes, and passion, yes, but maybe… maybe it’s also the space in between.

And then Pepper’s on her back on the desk and Natasha is on top of her and they’re still kissing and they’re super-heated and they’re both thinking that maybe they don’t need those spaces anymore.


End file.
